


Vanilla, Bergamot

by blood bag boogie (evil_bunny_king), evil_bunny_king



Series: The Dancing and the Dreaming [5]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: And the coming of the rain, Epistolary, F/F, Long summer nights, Love Letters, and the detective-, natalie - takes a moment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25981189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/pseuds/blood%20bag%20boogie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/pseuds/evil_bunny_king
Summary: Your skin tastes of the summer sun, ocean spray, salt-kissed-But I am forgetting myself, darling. It's so easy, when it's you.
Relationships: Female Detective/Natalie "Nat" Sewell
Series: The Dancing and the Dreaming [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053032
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46
Collections: A series of familiar letters





	1. Chapter 1

Darling.

You are sleeping across the room, half-tangled in the covers where I left you. You are alone, but not for long - I will return to you shortly, my darling, long before you wake.

I have only stepped away a moment. Just for a moment.

It's dark, but I can see the crease in your brow as you turn into the pillow, curling deeper into the sheets that smell of the two us, together; the blend of your perfume. Vanilla, bergamot. You hide it in your tender places: the thin skin of your wrist, the soft space behind your ear. You trail it down from the hollow of your throat, down, down, a meandering path over the constellations of your skin to the open neck of your blouse.

I have followed that trail. I have tasted the scent on your wrists, the curving line of your neck. I have followed the path to its end, to its drawn, held note above the swell of your breast and the music that I found there, that I drew from your lips, my darling-

(Your skin tastes of the summer sun, ocean spray, salt-kissed. When you leave I'll be left with this memory and these sheets, and the scent of your perfume, sunk into the skin and heart of me.)

But I am forgetting myself, darling. It's so easy, when it's you.

You are sleeping, and so I wanted to write to you. I wanted to savour this moment - the wonder that is an evening with you, in the heat of the summer and the shelter of our bed.

The warmth of _you_ , darling. Your mouth. Our lazy, leaden limbs. How we drape ourselves over each other, our feet dangling from the bed. How we kick away the sheets and pull at each other, making our own heat, our own sweet darkness and how I am lost in you, darling; the taste and smell of you, the whole and unfinished breath of you, the weight of your kiss and the curve of your spine and the heavy, swelling promise of the rain.

And when the heat breaks and I am drunk in you, adrift in your trails (vanilla, bergamot), how you find me there, how you draw me home. Hand in warm hand. The fit of your fingers between mine. The welcome of your mouth. The gentleness of your kiss.

I can hear the birds, darling. It's late, or it's early but you still sleep and I should too, lest the chance escape me. There's nothing I desire more than to spend these quiet evenings with you.

I will see you in the morning, dear heart. Until then, selfishly, I hope you are dreaming. I hope you dream of me.

With all my love,

Your Natalie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This became a challenge of sorts and this is definitely us throwing down the gauntlet - write up a storm of love letters for Unit Bravo, beautiful people! We're compiling these in a collection and it is definitely open for submissions ;D
> 
> This was also partly inspired by Seraphanite's answer about sexting; no lie.


	2. untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter to Natalie Sewell, from the Detective. Never sent, unfinished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to write this one, but I did; 
> 
> These letters are definitely _not sequential_. And are very, very different moments.
> 
> The plan for these letters is for more Nat, and a follow up to this one, maybe.

Natalie,

I don't know how- if-

I look at you and you are _good_. You _choose_ to be good, you have conviction, you fight for it, you find the strength to put behind a heart and a soul that wants to be good and I love that in you. I love you for it, I love you for the person you strive to be but more than that I love you for the person you are. I love _you_.

The fibre of you. Your long limbs and the smiles you badly hide. The way you tip your head back when you laugh and the long lines of your bare throat, the curl of your hair against my cheek, the softness of your sigh.

The way your jaw sets in an argument, assured in your stance, your certainty. Your willingness _to_ argue. To confront, embrace the conflict and yet still - you listen, you search for reconciliation and even when you're wrong, you're smiling, as long as the rare flash of your pride allows it.

It's not battle, not with you, although you will meet it if you must, and in the heat of these moments you are - brilliant. Vibrant. Beautiful.

And I don't understand it. I don't understand what there is in me, that draws you to me.

I don't know that I deserve you.

I know that you make me want to be better. To be what I've never been, to push against what scares me, to push against what feels like myself, what I've become-

But I know it's something that you choose. That you are scared, as well; that we, who we are, is not immutable. We are our choices, the ones we make and we don't make, each day.

And I know that you have pain, Nat. I know that it is deeper and older than your flesh and skin allows to mark you. I can hardly settle on you, the blush shadows I draw against the curve of your waist gone almost before I can glimpse them and it's with your voice, your hands, that you show what it meant to you - what I mean to you, impossibly, impossibly

you pull me back up to you, to your smiling eyes and brilliant gaze and the warm, certainty of your mouth and you persuade me again that-

Nat,

I am afraid of myself.

How do I know whether I am changing, or if am I just curving into your orbit, gleaning warmth from your sun before spitting it out into emptiness - empty, empty, meaningless, fathomless.

You burn regardless.

You make me burn.

I do not deserve you.

I am afraid you will realise that.

I'm afraid I will fall into myself again, back into the painful comfort of nothingness, of unbeing. I am selfish: I am selfish in wanting your love, I am selfish in not wanting to change despite how my heart and my soul cries out for it. I am selfish for wanting you here, skin to warm skin, my cheek against your heartbeat, beating, beating.

You hum as you run your fingers through my hair. You trace symbols over my back, nonsense, I think. You find the dip of my spine, draw the line up, up, until you span my shoulder blades with your warm palms against the cool of your room and such a simple touch undoes me, it unravels me, 

I do not deserve you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so lily wrote a [wonderful, wonderful little follow up to this and my heart is just-](https://lilyoffandoms.tumblr.com/post/627025553118117888/oh-i-love-this-all-your-writing-is-so-lovely-i)
> 
> (this is not Dinah, this time. Neither of these are)
> 
> and I was wondering about whether to include this here, because these are two very separate moments, emotions, places; but it's a good launching point too, if I continue with this (which I may very well do ngl)


	3. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 31 days of Wayhaven prompt 3: Mirror.
> 
> After the detective's 'letter'.

_Love. Darling._

_Kathryn._ Your name, spoken more quietly. _Please look at me._

Her fingers slide gently under your chin, tipping it up, drawing your head up. You entertain the wild fancy of just keeping your eyes closed - they’re pressed tight, unbidden heat welled in your eyelashes, and you don’t want to cry here, not with her, in her bed, not in this time together. You’re crying for yourself, a small, self-centred melancholy, spiralled, wound tightly in, and she is - she is worth _more than this_.

There’s a gentle touch at the corner of your eye. Her fingertips, pressing carefully, tracing to your cheek and a tear spills, warm, slipping down your nose. She is too gentle with you, and too kind. She is warm and light and life and you curve into her palm, forcing yourself to take a breath, letting it go into the space between you.

Your name is a plea. _Kate_.

You can’t. You can’t-

Your next breath escapes you as her arm slips around your ribs, pulling you close. She bends to you, curving around you, and she presses a fervent kiss to your forehead, open mouthed, and then another, and another - she wraps you in her arms and your arms wrap around her too, and you hold on too tight. You worry about the marks you’ll leave on her, temporary though they might be, but you’re shaking, you’re shaking and your body and your voice is not your own-

 _Come back to me,_ she whispers. _I am here. I am here as long as you need me. I need you - oh darling, I need you. Come back to me._

She has her hand around the back of your head, pressing you close, long fingers in your hair. Her arm crosses your back and anchors on your shoulder, holding, grounding, and you rest your head against her collarbone and listen to her heart beating and beating-

and eventually it sinks through the rush of your own pulse, the waxing overwhelm, the burn of your throat and your eyes and the taste of your tears. You become aware: that her skin is damp, your head throbs, and there's the firm weight of her arms, holding you together. She’s murmuring into your hair, her hand stroking, gentling, like you’re something once wild and also precious, and your tears are different, this time. You turn into her arms and try to bury yourself, lose yourself there.

 _‘m sorry,_ you manage, after a few long, steadying breaths.

Her hand in her hair smooths gently to the base of your skull and holds you as she kisses you on the forehead again - lightly, softly, and so tenderly, her lips pressing a gift there, and the shudder that passes through you is full bodied.

You open your eyes when she tilts your chin up to look at her, this time, your head dull and heavy and your thoughts, like the stirred waters of a lake after a storm. Her brown eyes are red-rimmed and bright - and your forehead is damp, you realise, as much as your cheeks and your face

and it _hurts_ , to see her like this.

 _Don’t_ , she says, before you can apologise again, and she leans down to kiss you. Her lips are soft, but firm in their denial. Her hand moves to your cheek, her thumb smoothing away the tear tracks and when you break away for a ragged breath you press your forehead against hers.

 _You don’t have to tell me_ , she whispers into the small space between you. _I would know, if you would share it with me. I want to know. There’s not much I wouldn’t do, to save you from this pain_.

 _What if I’m the one I need saving from._ And you hate the words as soon as you say them, pulling back and wincing physically against it - but her eyes are open and her gaze is on yours, her arms around you holding you steady. There’s an expression in her eyes that - you’ve seen before, that you see often but only briefly - something old and sad and well-worn, tucked into the corners. Something you _recognise_.

 _Even then. Especially then._ She ghosts her mouth against your cheek, a fleeting kiss. She presses against the tracks the tears have left, and then draws away to look at you again, licking her lips before she speaks. Her eyes are so dark, and so warm. _You are more than you know, especially to me._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalie receives an unusual note.
> 
> (let's break the 4th wall a little. From a Tumblr ask, hence the nature of the note ahahahaha)
> 
> A song that is so entirely Nat/Nate Sewell: [Where Have All Your Good Words Gone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DmJupd97kFI&feature=youtu.be), Laura Gibson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not part of this canon, haha, although the characters are the same. I have a more in-depth exploration of what this touches upon - it's just half-written, as it has been for the last half a year, oops.

A note, found in a sheaf of papers sent over by the agency:

> _...I gotta confess I am weak for the beautiful mess/paradox of a vampire N Sewell. Our dear Agent Lovesick. Our bleeding heart. They are just so intrinsically *good*. And breathtaking. Breathtaking in a way that robs breath, muddles reason; that fills you to the brim with strength and love and life, because they are kind - and they *choose* to be._

Natalie threads her fingers together, bent forward casually over the kitchen table, the note before her. Her hands are not quite touching it.

"Well," she says, on a laugh. "I'm not sure if this is a compliment, or not."

Adam's gaze flicks towards her from where he's filling the kettle at the sink - reading her as easily as a well-charted map, a familiar action, once learnt, ingrained.

 _You're uncomfortable,_ he says but doesn't say, not quite.

Instead he switches off the water and carefully sets the kettle onto the waiting hob. 

"It is hyperbolic," she continues as he turns to the cabinets, next, fetching mugs. He chooses a plain one for himself and the green glazed one for her, as is their habit. "Maybe even glib. Do you think it's glib? Then again - _breathtaking_." She laughs again, more of a chuckle, an exhale of breath. "I don't think that I was meant to receive this."

Lovesick. Bleeding heart. _Choice_. It's the last phrase her thoughts keep returning to, spinning it like yarn, spooled and unspooled. And that, she supposed, is just what's unsettling her - the kind cruelty of that professed acceptance, the knowledge it claims, or maybe just assumes.

"No, you probably weren't," Adam says, leaning back against the counter. 

The fairy lights strung over the mantle flicker shadows over the curve of his cheek, the arch of his brow. He watches her and there's a softness in that familiar gaze, those green eyes she knows so well and she has to look away, back down to the note. 

Cheap paper, cheap ink. Scrawled like a late night thought, slanted through the lines on the page.

_You choose to be kind._

_You choose to be good._

She reaches for it and- hesitates- doesn't crumple it- and instead folds it and tucks it away into a pocket instead. Out of sight, if not out of mind. 

She can feel Adam watching her and his expression, when she dares glance at it, is not unkind. He rarely is.

"Nat," he starts, and she shakes her head, minutely. She will address the note- and the sender, if they can or should be found - later. She will think about it later.

He says nothing more, but he steps the short distance across the room, his hand finding the curve of her shoulder, broad and firm (and this too is familiar).

The kettle boils.

They settle down to tea, side by side at the kitchen table, close enough their shoulders brush. Lemon, chamomile, the back of the tongue stickiness of honey.


End file.
